Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. CHAPTER XXVIII. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. ’ Gerald frowned in an effort of memory, and then laughed as he recalled one of the lies she had invented for his benefit.
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